since i am on grok trip these past few days, asked it to write a scene
i didn't mention in my prompt about draining the lake.
=====
The FBI briefing room hummed with tension, the walls plastered with maps of Kashmir, red pins marking the Srinagar bombing’s aftermath. Director Kash Patel—Kashyap Pramod Vinod Patel—sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid, eyes locked on the team. The projector cast a stark glow over the group as analysts and agents awaited his lead.
“Give me the rundown,” Kash said, his voice a low growl of authority. “What’s the latest on Srinagar?”
Agent Harper stood, clicking the remote to display the bombed-out market—smoldering debris and chaos frozen in time. “Car bomb, 0900 local, twelve dead, forty-seven injured. RAW’s pinning it on a Lashkar-e-Taiba offshoot. Chatter’s hot—suggests they’re planning something bigger, possibly beyond India.”
Kash’s fingers tapped the table. “Beyond India how?”
Harper nodded to Dr. Meena Sharma, the regional expert, who rose with a calm precision. “Kashmir’s their crucible—Muslim-majority since the 14th century, shaped by Sufi saints and Islamic rulers. They’re fighting for that identity. But here’s the kicker: we’ve ID’d a stateside player. Tariq Hassan, living in Jersey City, did the recce for this cell’s last strike—scoped out markets, transport hubs in Kashmir, then slipped back here.”
The room tightened, a collective inhale. Kash’s gaze sharpened. “Jersey City? What’s his profile?”
Harper flipped to a blurry photo—a man, mid-thirties, unremarkable, caught midstride. “Pakistani descent, U.S. citizen. He’s been quiet—too quiet—until we caught him pinging encrypted messages to a safehouse in Pulwama. He’s their logistics hub stateside.”
Kash leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Kashmir’s not just their turf, Dr. Sharma. My name—Kash—comes from Rishi Kashyap, the sage who gave that valley its name. Hindu roots, drained a lake to make it livable—long before your 14th-century cutoff. It’s been a crossroads—Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh, Muslim. Tariq’s playing a game with half the board.”
Dr. Sharma nodded, slightly abashed. “Noted, Director. I meant in modern terms—”
“I know,” Kash said, cutting her off with a wave, his tone brisk but not harsh. “They twist history to fit their narrative. Doesn’t matter. What’s our play with Tariq?”
Harper straightened. “We’ve got his digital trail—bank transfers, burners. He’s still active, feeding the Pulwama cell. But jurisdiction’s tricky stateside. Proposal: we package the intel—his location, comms, the works—and hand it to India’s NIA. Let them grab him when he steps foot back in their territory.”
Kash’s eyes flicked to the map, then back to Harper. “Smart. NIA’s got the reach and the motive. Pass it on—full dossier, real-time updates. Tell them we’ll keep eyes on him here until he moves. And that Pulwama safehouse?”
“SIGINT’s live,” Harper replied. “We’re syncing with RAW to hit it fast—before they bolt.”
“Good,” Kash said, standing, his chair scraping faintly. “Get the NIA on the line by 1900. Tariq’s their collar, but I want that cell gutted. Move.”
The team scattered, a flurry of purpose. Kash lingered, staring at the Srinagar pin on the map, his namesake valley burning in his mind. Tariq might’ve thought he owned the shadows, but Kash was about to turn on the lights—through India’s hands.
